


Three words

by jspringsteen



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 14:46:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6199147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jspringsteen/pseuds/jspringsteen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little warm-up to get into Joe and Web's heads for my WIP Webgott fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three words

Deep blue sky like glazed china cups in the cafés in Aldbourne. Mountains take a bite with jagged brown teeth. War is over. This from Major Winters. We coalesce into a circle around the three words, buzzing like insects around a dandelion. A month ago it would have been a lie. Now three little words are burdened with the fate of the world. Demob soon. Joe's fingers against mine. War is over.

Aldbourne a lifetime ago. Leave passes to London. Streets black like the bottom of the ocean; pass your fingers through it and they come away dripping ink. Hand in hand groping our way down the streets trying to find the Rainbow. Passing it by in favour of dark corners. Hide our ink-stained fingers behind our backs. English beer like piss. "To your health".

Normandy: wet, muggy, flares fingering the clouds. What use is my gas mask now? Fear like a thumbscrew tightening. A nearby shed has cognac. Thumbscrew loosens. Where are we?

Europe is beautiful. We share billets but sleep little. Joe picks the best ones. No scruples about kicking out stuck-up French families. We lose a lot of men. Foxholes dark and deep, earth damp and cold. Like lying in an open grave. Think of Donne: "Never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee." Blood and soil.

Daytime drop in Holland. Treated like kings--kings who sleep in the mud. Then: wounded in the leg and evacuated before I can get word to Joe. I write him a letter as soon as I'm patched up. Weeks to come. Sorry I couldn't, etc. Glad to get Peacock out of my hair. Nothing to read. No reply. Absent with leave.

Finally. Easy back from Bastogne. Hitchhike to Mourmelon; some buoyancy returns: "Lemme at 'em!" Grey faces under a grey sky. Joe is in a word: weary. Marks where Bastogne has gripped his throat with black frostbitten fingers. Where he has been I can't follow. Thousand yard stare.

Sharing a bed again. Joe shivering. Back towards me but I hold him anyway. His very blood chilled. "Like the one warm spark in the heart of an arctic crystal." Forgiveness bitter but I don't complain. Snow never white but grey, brown, red. Even soft kisses bruise. "Krauts are finished".

The camp. Defies all meaning. Architects of the Nibelungenlied, Beethoven, Goethe, and this? Joe is stupefied. Holding tight, can't squeeze out the memories. He bites his lip until it bleeds. Teeth tracks on his shoulder. Uncomfortably numb. "To feel anything other than this--this--" He dreams of ashes in turmoil. "Officers don't run".

Last shots fired. Japan looms; then shrinks. What to do now? Joe has his plans; the future yawns before me. Back to university. Maybe. "Good times, Web".

Lady Liberty condescending; as if liberation of Europe means nothing. Parting of ways. No clock stops for us. The next time I'm in San Francisco…etc. Eyes that burn like coals. A kiss, unconvinced. War is over.


End file.
